


Student Housing

by jujubiest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20 whO?, Background Destiel, Background Saileen, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, College Student Reader, Crack, Dean Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Domestic Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Team Free Will 2.0 (Supernatural), Team Free Will Uses Aliases, Team Free Will are Freaks and sometimes People Notice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: Sam decides to rent out rooms in the bunker to college students. Finding yourself in a housing bind just before the start of your sophomore year, you decide the dirt cheap rent is worth the risk that your landlords might be serial killers.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 128





	1. The Interview

**Author's Note:**

> This happened, like most things, because tumblr. This post (https://bisexualdeano.tumblr.com/post/641330748130017280/i-dont-like-post-canon-headcanons-that-either) made me think about the bunker as cheap student housing, and I just sort of...went off the rails with it. This is a reader POV fic, and I'm striving to write it so the reader could be a person of any gender.
> 
> Beta-read by the lovely SamanthaShade who gave me the added challenge of "write a reader POV fic without ever using Y/N." It's been a time.

You pull into the only open space and put your car in park with a sigh. You overestimated the drive time and you’re nearly half an hour early, but that’s not what has you so exasperated.

Your phone has been pinging nonstop for the last hour, making it very difficult to follow the GPS to your destination. You pull it out of the dashboard holder and flip through the texts, barely skimming the words. They all say the same thing anyway.

Your friends think you’re nuts for even coming here, but really, what other choice do you have? Your school, with the lack of forethought only college administrators could be capable of, admitted more students than it could house this year and gave priority to incoming freshmen. So instead of snagging the nice on-campus apartment you were hoping for, you now have to find somewhere off campus to rent. It sucks, and it’s making the lead-up to this term into one giant headache. Who can afford an off-campus apartment in their _sophomore_ year? Certainly not you, not even with twenty hours a week of work study.

You can’t ask your parents for the money; you know they can’t afford it.  You live just far enough away that staying at home is out of the question.  And if you add any more work hours, you know you’ll fall behind in classes. That could lose you your tuition scholarship, and that? Is not an option. It’s too late to apply for any scholarships or additional loans,  too,  so. That leaves you here. At the Tipsy Cow Cafe in Lebanon, Kansas,  h oping to snag the dirt cheap apartment you found  buried in the student housing forum.

Even if it  _is_ an hour’s drive away from campus and your  lan d lords are three middle-aged white men , a.k.a. the most likely demographic for serial killers.

You sigh again, flipping through the last of the texts and then turning off your phone screen, remembering your best friend’s worried gaze when you  showed her the forum post.

“One bedroom, access to full bath and kitchen. Common areas shared with…” She’d looked up at you with wide eyes. “Are you crazy?! You can’t live with a bunch of old dudes. That’s _so_ creepy.”

“How is it creepy?” You’d said, though you already saw her point.

“This place is like fifty miles away! In the middle of nowhere. No, more like the _outskirts_ of the middle of nowhere, near some kind of industrial farm complex? And these guys just happen to have an open room to offer a college student? For _that_ cheap?”

“Yeah,” you’d said defensively. “So?”

“So do you wanna be on _Unsolved Mysteries_? ‘Cause this is how you get your very own episode of _Unsolved Mysteries_.”

You thought she was being melodramatic at the time, but now? Now you’re an hour away from campus with only 2 bars of cell service, and you’re starting to wonder if she had a point.

But you’re already here, and at least the meeting spot is a public place, right? That has to speak to good intentions. You hope.

_Or it could be their way of lulling me into a false sense of security so they can serial murder me later._

You immediately wish you’d never thought of that.

You sit in the car for another twenty minutes, tapping nervously on your steering wheel and debating whether to just drive back to campus. On the one hand, you’re greatly in favor of not being murdered. You can take the ‘I told you so’ from your friends. On the other hand, you can swallow your pride easily enough, but the gas costs? That’s another story. And you already know you aren’t going to get an apartment cheaper than this one. It’s so cheap it  even makes the gas costs from driving back and forth worth it, especially if you only drive  into campus  on the days you have to be in class. You might even be able to eat something other than ramen and Easy Mac a few times a month, if you’re really frugal.  Which’ll be easy to manage, you think, considering you won’t be surrounded by a bunch of people who just got old enough to buy their own booze.

It’s a good idea. It is. As long as your prospective lan dlords aren’t serial killers.

You take a deep breath. You grab the filled out lease from your passenger seat and your keys from the ignition, suddenly thankful for the kitty cat keychain your mom got you for Christmas last year. Then you get out of your car and go inside. If th ey  se em creepy in person  you figure you can always just leave without giving  them the lease.

You walk inside the cafe and look around, wondering if  they’re already here. Only a few tables are occupied at this time of day:  one  near the door  by a redhead glued to her laptop, one  in the middle  by two older  men  sharing a plate of french fries who look like they might be on a date,  and one near the back by two other guys, one who looks to be in his twenties and one who looks older. Thirties, maybe?

The last two look up at the jingle of the bells above the door when you walk in, so you head that way.

“Mr. Kline?” You approach the table with your hand outstretched, the kitty cat keychain tucked safely out of sight—but within reach—in your pocket. Just in case.

The older of the two stands and offers you his hand to shake. You take it, a little stunned as you crane your neck to look up at him. He’s  _very_ tall.

“You’re here about the room rental?” He asks, voice quiet and friendly. You can only nod, still a little thrown.

“Thanks for meeting us here,” he says, gesturing for you to sit down. He rejoins the younger man on the other side of the table. You sit, sliding the folder with the lease in it into the empty spot beside you.

“This is my son Jack,” Mr. Kline says, gesturing at the younger one, who gives you a sunny smile.

“Hello,” he says, waving like a little kid. You find yourself smiling back. He’s very cute.

“So, you’re looking for a place to stay while you attend school. Hastings?”

“Yes, sir,” you say. You haven’t been an adult long enough yet not to think of anyone older than you as sir or ma’am. But Mr. Kline laughs and waves a hand at you, as though shooing your words away.

“Call me Sam, please,” he says, still in that quiet voice. “Do you have any allergies? We have a dog.”

“Oh, uh...no, no allergies.” You don’t mention that you’re a vegetarian, because it’s not really an allergy and these guys look like the type who make eating red meat a vital part of their identity. Anyway, you’ll be making your own food, so it’s not like it should matter.

“Do you have a reliable way to get to and from campus every day? We have a car, but we travel a lot and keep weird hours, so you’ll need a way to get to places on your own.”

“I have a car,” you say. “It’s pretty reliable, at least so far. If it breaks down on me, I have AAA.”

“Great,” he says. “Do you have any questions for us?”

“Um.” You say. Almost stop yourself. Then decide what the hell. “So it’s you two and one other guy?”

“What? Oh, actually,” Mr. Kline—Sam—looks embarrassed. “Jack doesn’t stay at the b—house, at least not all the time. He’s in school, too. Most of the time it’s just me and my brother and our...friend.”

Something about the way he says  _friend_ pings weirdly for you, but you push past it for now.

“In the pictures the place looked kind of…” you stop, biting your lip. You don’t want to insult the guy’s house, but frankly? It looked like a large prison cell. Bare walls, bare floors, all cement.

Sam seems to know what you mean.

“Yeah,” he says with a slight grimace. “It’s...an older building. The original owners weren’t big on decorating. But the rooms are pretty big, and they lock from the inside...believe me, that’s a good thing when you live with my brother, who still thinks putting itching powder in my sock drawer is top-tier comedy. And you can decorate your room however you want. Can’t be that much worse than a dorm room, unless they’ve gotten a lot nicer since I was in school.”

“Did you go to Hastings?” You ask without really thinking.

“Oh, uh...no. I...Stanford,” he says, sounding embarrassed. Which is weird, because. Stanford? Not something to be embarrassed about.

You decide to add that to the column labeled “weird, possibly a serial killer.”

“What’s your favorite part of school?” The younger guy—was it Jack?—pipes up, sounding like he just couldn’t hold in the question any longer. You think for a second, not quite looking at him.

“I like my classes,” you say finally. “I like getting to set my own schedule, too.” You also like what it represents: the chance to get up, to get _out._ To not live and die in the same town for the rest of your life, never seeing the rest of the world, never knowing anything beyond the county line.

But you’re not gonna say that to a couple of strangers. You clear your throat and shift in your seat a little. This is a very weird housing interview.

“I like the classes, too,” Jack says. “And getting to be around other people.” The way he says it makes it sound like he didn’t meet other people at all before college. Homeschooled?

Another tick in the weird column.

Sam clears his throat.

“So...you said in your email the rent works for you. Utilities are included in that, and the wi-fi’s covered. We have a washer and dryer you can use, no quarters needed, we just rotate out who gets to use it on what day. Parking is free but uncovered. There’s no landline, so if you need to make a call…”

“I have a cell phone,” you say. Utilities _and_ wi-fi included? Free laundry and parking? This really is too good to be true.

Unfortunately, it’s also too good to pass up. No college apartment has free laundry, free parking,  _and_ free wi-fi. Certainly not one you could ever afford.

You reach for the folder beside you without fully realizing you’re doing it.

“I printed the lease you sent and filled it out,” you hear yourself say. You slip the lease out of its folder and hand it to him across the table. He takes it, looking faintly surprised.

“Great,” he says, scanning it quickly. “Okay, this looks good.” He looks back at you over the top of the lease.

“Any other questions for us?”

You shake your head.

“Okay,” he stands, offers you the hand that isn’t holding the lease.

“Well, I’ll talk it over with my brother and we’ll get back to you by the end of the week. Does that work?”

“Sure.” The height thing really is disorienting. If this guy decides to murder you, you think distantly, no amount of kitty cat keychains is going to help. There’s too damn much of him to stab, and all the vital organs are out of reach.

Okay, that might be exaggerating. A little.

Not much.

You tune back in just in time to realize Sam has said his goodbyes and is now awkwardly waiting for you to walk away.

“Uh. Bye,” you say intelligently, and then hightail it out of there.

* * *

“So?” Sam approaches the table at the center of the restaurant, where Charlie has just joined Dean and Cas. “What d’you guys think?”

“I scanned the cell phone when they came in,” Charlie says. “Didn’t find anything weirder than about a billion text messages from friends saying you guys are probably serial killers.”

“Well, they aren’t completely wrong about that,” Cas deadpans. Dean elbows him.

“Hey! We’re not a bunch of mouth-breathers with mommy issues who go around killing co-eds for fun. We hunt monsters, that’s different.”

“Yeah,” Charlie mutters. “You definitely don’t have any _mommy_ issues.” Dean shoots her a glare, which she ignores.

“I didn’t sense anything,” Jack says, appearing at Sam’s elbow. “Just a regular human.”

“School email checks out, too,” Charlie adds. “Social media is totally normal. Dare I say...basic? Though I'm shocked a single person somehow managed to have all your terrible tastes in music combined. Lizzo, Van Halen, Taylor Swift…”

“Hey,” Dean says, gesturing threateningly with a ketchup-covered french fry. “Taylor Swift is the voice of a generation.”

Sam barely holds back a snort. Cas looks at Dean with confusion clear on his face.

“I believe Taylor Swift is part of Claire’s generation, and I am fairly certain Claire would not agree.”

“Yeah, well...I’m pretty sure you’ve never been in the car with her when ‘Picture to Burn’ comes on.”

“No,” Cas concedes. “I haven’t.”

“Anyway,” Sam cuts in, hoping to bring the conversation back to the topic at hand. “So not a monster, not a demon. Aside from being a Swiftie, is there any reason we shouldn’t rent out the room?”

“None I can think of,” Dean says casually.

“Okay,” Sam says. “I’ll call back on the way home.”

They start to pack up their things while Cas goes to pay for the fries.

When they’re almost to the car, Dean calls out.

“Cas gets shotgun!”

“Dude,” Sam says, all wide-eyed betrayal.

“Sorry Sammy,” Dean says, holding the passenger door open for his angel. “Disrespect Taylor, get banished to the back seat.”

* * *

You’re still on the road when the call comes in. You answer one-handed and put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Sam Kline calling about the room rental.”

“Hi Sam,” you say. Your heart is suddenly pounding, though with excitement or trepidation, you aren’t sure.

“I talked it over with my brother, and the room’s yours if you want it. What’s your move-in date?”

You just barely manage to hold in a squeal. Excitement it is, then.

“September 17th,” you say, voice passably calm.

“Great,” Sam says. “We’ll be sure someone’s home to show you around and get you a key. See you then!”

“Sounds good,” you say. Then, impulsively: “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Sam says. “Bye!”

He hangs up before you can say it back, but you’re too happy to care. You have housing that won’t break your budget, and now you can focus on other things. Like affording all your textbooks, and what to do if your landlords  _do_ turn out to be serial killers.

And what to tell your friends, who are still blowing up your phone.


	2. Move-In Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You move into the bunker. Your new housemates are very weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My previous beta had to bow out, so this chapter is a little rough and un-beta'd. I'm looking for a new one though! If you're interested, let me know in the comments or come say hi on tumblr (my current username is darkshrimpemotions).

The day before  you’re supposed to move in , Sam text s you a set of coordinates  instead of an address . Another tick in the weird column, though at this point you’re not sure it’s worth keeping track, considering you’ve already signed the lease.

Y ou don’t mention the little weirdnesses to your friends, mostly so you won’t have to hear for the thousandth time why this is the worst idea ever. You also don’t tell them Sam asked for all rent payments in cash. They’d really have a field day with that one, but having filled up your gas tank in Lebanon on your last trip, you get it. It wouldn’t surprise you if most of the businesses in town are cash-only.

On moving day you wake up late and groan at the time on your phone. You planned to get an early start on traffic, but that’s shot now. By the time you’re ready to go, it’s nearly noon.

It’s been a chilly, rainy fall so far, and the sunlight is pale and watery as you pull onto the highway. You drive more slowly than usual, constantly mindful of all your dorm stuff,  clothes, and books  packed into the back seat.

It takes an extra half hour to get there, but at last the GPS announces that you’ve arrived.  The place looks like an old abandoned factory, and most of it’s fenced in. The spot Sam’s coordinates directed you to is kind of off the beaten path; you’d never have found it on your own. It’ s a little side street that dead ends at a door set into the side of a hill. It doesn’t look like a house at all, and you wonder for the dozenth time whether this is a good idea.

You put the car in park and hop out, texting Sam to let him know you’re here and then proceeding to unload the handful of boxes and bags in the back seat.

It’s not a lot: a small box of books, a duffel bag  for your  clothes, a larger box with all your bedclothes and other dorm stuff in it,  a small bag for your toiletries. Aside from your laptop bag, that’s it. It should only take you a couple of trips to get everything inside.

As you’re struggling with the largest box, you hear approaching footsteps crunching through the leaves. A moment later a pair of hands take s the box from you, lifting it away like it’s nothing. You step back to see an older man, dark suit and tan trench coat, smiling at you over the top.

“Sam sent me to see if you needed any help,” he says, and _holy crap_ his voice is deep.

“Thanks,” you say a little breathlessly. You grab your duffel and laptop bags, slinging one over each shoulder. That only leaves the toiletry bag and smaller box for the second trip, but before you’ve taken a step away from the car, Jack comes bounding over.

“Hello again,” he says. “Can I help?”

“Hi Jack,” you say. “Can you grab the last box and bag?”

“Of course,” he answers, smiling. You smile back, almost unconsciously. He’s difficult _not_ to smile at.

“Follow me,” the older man says, bringing you back to the present.

Moment of truth. Last chance to back out. You look between the two of them. You look toward the door in the hill, currently standing open. You consider.

You readjust the bags on your shoulders and do as he says, following him through the  open door and down a set of stairs.  As you hear Jack pulling the door shut behind you, you send up a prayer to whoever might be listening that this doesn’t turn out to be the worst and last idea you’ve ever had.

Then all your focus is on getting down a narrow staircase with two unbalanced bags that keep hitting the rails on either side.  You’re extremely glad you don’t have to maneuver the larger box down those stairs yourself, but  Sam’s friend—or is this one his brother?—s eems to have no trouble at all.

At the bottom of the stairs, you have to stop for a second and just...stare.

It’s like something out of James Bond, or Kingsman, maybe. The entire room seems vaguely hexagonal, with a sort of mezzanine on three sides, accessible by the same staircase you just walked down. Everything is concrete and iron and glossy black brick, and there’s a table in the room that looks like it might belong in some executive conference room, except for the fact that its surface is a backlit map of the world.

Everything is lit warmly by lights hanging from the ceiling and in wall sconces, and there’s a vaguely art deco feel to it all that makes you feel like you’ve been transported backwards in time.

“Woah,” you breathe out, turning slowly in a circle, trying to take it all in at once.

“Yeah,” Jack says, appearing at your shoulder. “Welcome to the bunker!”

“Bunker?” You ask, worry creeping back in. That sounds vaguely culty.

“It’s a holdover from the Cold War,” says a familiar voice. You turn to see Sam entering from an alcove off to your left. Through it you glimpse shelves and shelves of books.

“Glad you found us okay,” he says. “I see you’ve met Cas.”

You guess he means the older guy currently holding half of everything you own like it weighs no more than a loaf of bread.

“Yeah,” you say weakly, still trying to acclimate to your new surroundings.

“Well, follow me,” he says. “Your room’s through here.”

He leads you back toward the alcove he came through. You tear your eyes away from all those books with some difficulty and follow him through it and down a narrow hallway. The walls here are  decorated with gray bricks, their  neat  lines interrupted every few feet by heavy  wooden doors. Every door has a number  on it, and the same symbol.

“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at one of the symbols as you walk past.

“Old family crest,” Sam says shortly, not looking at you. You frown; something about that rings false, but you decide not to press him on it. Partly out of simple manners—you just don’t interrogate someone in their own home—but also because you’re acutely aware that you’re currently surrounded. Cas in front of you, Jack behind, and Sam at your side. It seems an inadvisable position from which to prod.

F inally, Sam stops at one of the doors, currently standing ajar, and pushes it all the way open.

“This one’s yours,” he says. You check the number. Room 5.

“Dean’s the closest in Room 11. He’s out getting groceries but I’ll introduce you when he gets back. I’m further down in Room 21, and Jack is across from me in Room 22, when he’s here. We have guests sometimes, but they’ll mostly be nearer to me and Jack. We hardly ever have the place full, and you’re the only person we’ve had answer the student housing ad so far.”

Great. So no students you can team up with if these guys decide to go all _Cabin In The Woods_ on your ass.

Jack laughs, suddenly, out of nowhere. You look at him to ask what’s so funny, but before you can, Cas is shuffling past you to deposit the box he’s holding on your bed. Jack follows his lead, and then before you know it, you’re left alone with a departing “let us know if you need anything!” from Sam.

You drop your duffel and laptop bags on the bed as well and look around, taking stock of the room in full. It’s not huge, but it’s way bigger than anything you’d get to yourself on campus. The bed is centered, with the headboard against the wall opposite the door. There’s a desk on one side, a night stand and dresser on the other, and a sink in one corner near the door. All of the furniture is the same heavy, dark wood as the door. Definitely not Ikea.

You heave a satisfied sigh, close the door, and get to unpacking.

* * *

Several hours later , there’s a light knock on the door.

“Come in,” you say, not lifting your eyes from where you’re currently folding all your socks into the top drawer of the dresser.

“Can’t stay,” says an unfamiliar voice. “Just lettin’ you know I’ll have dinner ready in ten, if you wanna join us. It’s chili night!”

You pause in your folding.

“Uh, thanks,” you call out, heart sinking. Your stomach, now that you’ve thought of food, reminds you that you haven’t actually _had_ any since that gas station coffee and donut you grabbed on your way here this morning.

But chili? You’ve been vegetarian since freshman year. Not full vegan—you still eat eggs and dairy sometimes, mostly because it’s hard to find substitutes at your local store—but still. You’re not even sure what it would do to your stomach, eating chili. Probably wouldn’t feel great.

But you don’t have the extra cash to go buy dinner in town, and you’re too hungry to skip it and wait until you’re back on campus tomorrow. So you finish putting away your clothes and then head out into the hallway. You pause there, uncertain of which way the kitchen is. Luckily, Cas steps out of room 11 just then.

“Hello again,” he says pleasantly. “Feeling lost?”

“A little,” you admit. “This place is like a maze.”

“You get used to it,” he reassures you, smiling softly. You return the smile, then turn beet red as your stomach rumbles loudly, easily audible in the quiet of the hallway.

Cas’s brow furrows with concern.

“You’re hungry,” he says. It’s not a question. “Here...the kitchen is this way.” He starts walking and you follow. He continues talking as you go, giving you some pointers on navigating the place.

“Follow the numbers down to get to the library. Once you’re there, there are three doors branching off. The one to your left will be the door into the war room--”

“Wait... _war room_?” You interrupt. He looks worried for a moment, but schools his expression so quickly you’re not entirely sure you didn’t imagine it.

“Yes,” he says. “This bunker was built during a rather tumultuous period of human history. It appears to have been intended as some sort of hidden military barracks originally. Thus we refer to the front room with the map as the war room. As a joke,” he adds as an afterthought.

You get the feeling he’s telling you part of the truth, or something close to it, but something about the way he delivers the information smacks of deception. You remember what Sam said about that symbol being a family crest. That felt the same way.

Whatever this place is really for, it’s pretty clear no one here wants to tell you about it. Which is another giant red mark in the weirdness column, and another thing you probably won’t mention to your friends at school. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, really, as long as they’re not hurting anybody. And so far, you have no evidence that they are. So they’re a little weird. Who isn’t?

It occurs to you that you’re going to a lot of mental trouble to justify these guys’ weirdnesses. You’re not sure why, except maybe that the rent really is unbeatable.

Before you can get too far in your own head, you’ve reached the library.

“The door opposite us leads to the kitchen. Just head down the hallway through there, it’s the first door on your right.”

“Thanks,” you tell him. “Are you not eating dinner? The guy who knocked on my door said it’s chili night.”

“I’ll be in later. Dean always saves me a bowl.” He says it fondly, with a little smile on his face you’re sure he’s not aware of. Interesting.

“Well, thanks again,” you say, and then the two of you part ways. You head across the library and down the hall like he said. The first door on the right is already open, and Jack and Sam are sitting at the table. Beyond them, a third man is at the stove with his back turned. You take a tentative step into the room, and Jack turns to you and smiles brightly.

“Hello!” He chirps. “You can sit next to me.” So you do, sitting down just as the guy at the stove turns around.

Holy Captain America. What is  _with_ this family? Are they some kind of lab-created super-soldiers? Is that why they’re all freakishly tall and incredibly good-looking? Because they’re four-for-four on both counts at this point. Sam with his shampoo commercial hair, Jack with the sunny smile and big blue eyes...even Cas is attractive, in that quiet hot dad sort of way, and now  _this_ guy? This guy looks like he was made in Photoshop. No human being has any right to be that pretty.

You suddenly realize Jack is snickering beside you, and you look at him strangely. He sobers immediately, though there’s still mirth twinkling in his eyes as he looks at you. Before you can ask what’s so pretty, Mr. Prettier Than Humanly Possible speaks up.

“So, this the new housemate?”

“That’s me,” you say, slightly mortified by how high your voice comes out. You clear your throat hastily.

“Nice to meet ya, kid. I’m Dean. And sorry in advance for the kid thing. Everybody under thirty-five is kid to me. It’s a bad habit.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, but you don’t really mind. You still feel like a kid, most of the time. Unsure of what you’re doing, what the next right thing might be. You wonder if that’s true for everyone your age, or if you’re just a weirdo.

Well, you’re in good company either way, you think.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, managing to school your voice to within its normal register. “Thanks for the dinner invite. I haven’t had a chance to scope out the local grocery stores or anything yet.” Dean waves this away with the hand holding a wooden spoon, heading back toward the stove as he does.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I mean, feel free to get whatever, but you can also just let one of us know and we’ll put it on the grocery list for next time we go.” He pauses, appears to consider. “Actually...tell me or Cas. These two are crap at remembering to add things to the list.”

“Hey,” Sam laughs. “I’m not that bad.”

“Bullshit,” Dean retorts. “I’ve had to actually _learn_ about your weirdo food preferences to keep the stuff you need in stock, because you never remember.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“By ‘weirdo food preferences’ he means vegan,” he explains. “Dean thinks it’s not a real meal unless an animal died for it.” He wrinkles his nose in mild disgust.

“Hey, I don’t see you complaining when I make you hangover bacon after Eileen drinks you under the table.” Dean turns back toward you all, gesturing with his hands as he talks.

“His girlfriend Eileen. About yea high,” he holds a hand up to his sternum. “Cute as a button. Weighs about as much as a slice of bread, but somehow she can out-drink this guy any night of the week.”

“Tequila,” Sam interjects. “Only if it’s tequila. If it’s whiskey or beer I’m _fine._ ”

“Sure you are,” Dean laughs, clearly skeptical. He turns off the stove and gestures at all of you.

“Well, soup’s on. Everybody grab a bowl. Sammy, the dutch oven’s the one with your nasty vegan chili.”

Sam crosses the room and looks into the dutch oven.

“Dean, there’s enough here for a small army. It’ll take me all week to eat this much chili.”

“Um,” you say quietly. “I can help? I’m vegetarian.”

Sam graces you with a huge smile. Dean groans.

“ _Another_ one?”

* * *

An hour later you leave the kitchen full and absolutely exhausted. Dinner was nice, everyone gathered around the table with their bowls of chili and big slices of cornbread (“From scratch!” Dean exclaimed proudly). Sam and Dean bickered the entire time, but there was no anger behind it. It was even fun to watch after a while, you and Jack bouncing between watching Dean and watching Sam like you were at a ping-pong match.

Jack himself was quiet, only contributing to the conversation sometimes. The things he did say ranged wildly from extremely weird to really very sweet. He had a way of speaking without any pretense at all. Sometimes it was a little embarrassing, like when he blithely told you to sleep with earplugs, because Cas and Dean got “shouty” at night. Dean had choked on a hunk of cornbread at that, and you gathered from the general reaction that he didn’t mean they argued loudly.

Mostly it was refreshing, though. Jack never seemed like he was lying or talking around things. If he stumbled into something he didn’t want you to know about, he’d just fall silent. Or outright tell you he wasn’t supposed to talk about it. It was another tick in the weirdness column, but a nice one.

After dinner you’d offered to help clean up, only to be shooed away by Dean.

“Nah, go on, get some sleep. You had a long day, movin’ in and all.” You almost argued, wanting to repay him for the dinner, but right then your body had decided you just _had_ to yawn. So you had taken his advice, and made your way toward your room.

In the library, Sam catches up to you and stops you with a hand on your arm.

“Here,” he says, holding something out to you. You take it, and see that it’s a key. It looks old, and that symbol is stamped into the end of it. You pocket it and thank him.

“No problem,” he says. “Oh, and before I forget. We don’t really have a lot of rules here, but there are a few. Mainly, don’t mess with the weapons. Most of them are in working condition, so they’re dangerous. If you make a mess in the kitchen, you clean it. Though to be honest I don’t recommend it unless you really like to cook. Dean cooks every night, and he always makes enough for at least two days’ worth of leftovers. You’re welcome to eat with us any time. Other than that, uh...don’t read the books out loud. Don’t make copies of the key. And if you have guests over, don’t leave them unattended. That’s it! Have a good night.”

He leaves before you can wrap your head all the way around those rules. Especially the last few. You head toward your room on autopilot, already acclimating to your new surroundings. Your head is buzzing with questions, but you’re too tired to puzzle through them tonight. When you reach your room you close and lock the door, toe your shoes off, and crawl into the bed. You’re asleep almost before your head hits the pillow.

* * *

“So,” Dean says when Sam returns to the kitchen. “You still think this is a good idea, having a civilian running around?”

“We’ve been over this, Dean.” Sam says. They have, and he’s tired. “Rowena says having civilians around will actually make the place safer. Their presence has a sort of neutralizing effect. Keeps this place from becoming a beacon for the supernatural. Since we never managed to get all the old wards back up and running, we had to do something. Otherwise we were just gonna end up drawing every weird thing within a thousand miles our way.”

“Which would be bad,” Dean concedes.

“Yeah, understatement. Bad for us _and_ bad for Lebanon,” Sam emphasizes. “This place has been good to us. I don’t want to bring hell down on it, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “I know. Me neither. Okay, so the civilian stays. Just...let’s keep an eye out, alright? I don’t want the death and dismemberment of some poor college kid on my head.”

“Way ahead of you. Cas is outside warding the car, and there’s a charm on the key as well. It only works for the person it was intended for. Plus I embedded hex bags in the four corners of all the student boarding rooms. If anything ever happens, they’ll be safe as long as they lock the door and don’t come out. These are heavy duty, Rowena’s own recipe. It’d take the likes of someone like Amara to get through that stuff, and if _she’s_ coming after us--”

“Nobody’s really safe, yeah, I know,” Dean says. He shakes his head, laughing a little. “My brother the witch. Who would’ve thought we’d ever be here, huh?”

“Right. Yeah...pretty sure even Missouri wouldn’t have predicted this one.”

“I dunno. She didn’t miss much. Always knew what I was thinkin’.”

“Yeah, and you _hated_ that.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise surprise, this might actually have a plot! I'm currently working on chapter 3, and I have ideas for a chapter 4 as well.


	3. Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bunker's newest tenant meets Eileen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented so far! The response to this has blown me away, I really didn't expect anyone to want to read this. I think I have a vague idea of where this is going now, though still no idea of how many chapters it'll take to get there. Forgive any mistakes; I read over it three or four times and then didn't want to wait any longer to post because I know folks have been waiting!
> 
> For those who asked in the last chapter: I do think Cas is human but still has some lingering abilities from having been an angel. I also think he would still wear the suit and trench coat sometimes even if he wasn't an angel anymore (I mean, he picked out a new one after the old coat was lost, clearly he thinks it's a look lol).

Your first few weeks in the bunker are mostly uneventful. You go to class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays during the day, and to your part-time job in the evenings. You get up early on Tuesdays and Thursdays to catch up on the readings and assignments from your classes. Saturdays are for studying. Sundays are for doing whatever didn’t get done during the rest of the week—usually your laundry. The bunker has a washer and dryer tucked away in one of the many rooms, and Sam has a sign-up sheet hanging up on the wall next to it for laundry time. Dean, you notice, ignores this entirely.

Learning your way around the bunker well takes a couple of weeks. The third night you get lost on the way back from your shower and end up in some kind of storage room full of more weapons, more books, countless random knick-knacks, and a glass-doored cabinet full of herbs and vials of things that smells so strongly it makes your eyes water, even when it’s closed and locked. You manage to stumble back to your room without having to call for help, but after that you get lost twice more before you manage to stop getting turned around.

Between your class schedule, figuring out a new living space, your job, and all the driving back and forth to campus, your days are full and you go to bed every night around midnight, exhausted. You’re already kicking yourself for taking the maximum number of hours this semester, but you power through it, and life in the bunker quickly goes from being a choice made out of financial desperation to the only thing keeping you halfway sane.

The library is quiet, warmly-lit, and mostly free of distractions during the week. Sam is usually in there with his nose in a book, when he’s home, and the others don’t disturb him often. Surprisingly, you find they extend the same courtesy to you even when he’s not there, once you establish your study routine for a week or so. You spend your evenings sitting hunched over your books at one end of a row of tables, Sam at the other, reading in companionable silence only broken by the occasional scratch of a pen when one of you stops to take notes.

More than once you find yourself curious about what he’s researching. Every tome you’ve seen him with so far looks old enough that a too-strong breath might turn it to dust. But the one time you take a peek while he’s out of the room, it’s all in some unfamiliar language that actually hurts your head a little to look at for too long.

Dean also takes some stress off your plate when he keeps insisting on feeding you. At first it’s just inviting you to eat dinner with them all every evening. Then it escalates to lunches on days you’re in the library studying. He just came in one day with a sandwich for Sam, saw you there, and came back a few minutes later with another one, mumbling about nerds and their habit of forgetting to feed themselves.

Some small voice in the back of your head says you should be embarrassed, imposing on their hospitality like this all the time. You’re not a guest, you’re not family...you’re a tenant, that’s all. But a much louder voice says you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free food, and you listen to that one. It’s easier to do when you see how Dean seems genuinely pleased to feed the people under his roof. He reminds you, bizarrely, of your mom in that way.

A month in you realize you still haven’t bought any groceries at all. You also never added anything to Dean’s grocery list, and yet your favorite foods keep cropping up at dinner at least once a week.

You don’t see a lot of Jack and Cas after that first night. They’re around sometimes, sure, Cas especially, but not as often as Dean and Sam. Cas seems to have some kind of office job, based on the suits he’s usually wearing, and you remember Sam saying Jack was at school. Sam and Dean, on the other hand, seem to spend whole days in the bunker without leaving for more than errands. Then Sam will be gone for days at a time. It’s awkward at first, when it’s just you and Dean in the bunker. You haven’t really talked much to any of your...landlords? Housemates? But you’ve talked to Dean least of all, in spite of the whole eating his food every day thing.

Then one morning, three days into Sam being MIA and a week since you’ve seen Cas, you stumble into the kitchen for coffee to find Dean standing at the stove in his pajamas, frying up a pan full of bacon, dancing and singing along to some old classic rock song on the radio. He’s a bad singer and a worse dancer, and for a second you’re just frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to laugh or sneak back out before he sees you.

Before you can decide, though, he turns around. You kind of expect him to be embarrassed, or defensive even. Instead he just grins and asks if you want some eggs, already heading to the fridge as he says it. Your mental perception of him shifts a little, almost imperceptibly.

Somehow, it’s less awkward after that.

You fall into a routine easily, and most of the time you’re too occupied with that routine to think much about all the little questions and unexplained weirdnesses around you. The rest of the time, you’re caught somewhere between idle curiosity and feeling guilty for prodding into other people’s business, even just in your own head. But everything here is such a _puzzle._

Because sure, none of these guys keep regular hours. You have no idea what any of them do for a living, how they got a place like this or how they afford to keep it. They seem a little too down-to-earth to be wealthy, a little too comfortable around weapons to be safe (you’ve noticed Dean cleaning guns and sharpening blades in the war room a few times, when you couldn’t sleep and got up in the middle of the night for water, or a snack). They have a library full of books in dead languages, a locked storage cupboard full of mysterious ingredients that smells like death, and a strange symbol on all the doors that Sam blatantly lies about. Sam, who strikes you as the kind of person that hates lying.

And oh yeah...they live in a _bunker._ There’s always going to be that, even if the guys themselves were perfectly normal. But they’re decidedly not.

But also...they kind of... _are_ most of the time. They’re just  to the left of regular guys, a regular family. They tease each other and they bicker, they eat dinner together most nights, they do their own things but always come home to each other. For all the weirdness, they  _are_ kind of normal, too.

Or maybe you’re just getting weirder, living here.

* * *

A week before your midterms, the bunker gets its first visitor since you arrived: Sam’s oft-mentioned girlfriend, Eileen.

She arrives Tuesday just after lunch, and she’s exactly as Dean described her: petite and very pretty. What he didn’t mention was that she’s also Deaf, and you immediately lament that you never learned more than how to spell your own name in ASL. But Eileen seems used to dealing with people who aren’t fluent. Dean, you notice, only knows a few signs. For anything longer than a sentence, they rely on lip reading to communicate.

Jack and Cas are slightly more fluent, and Sam is the most fluent of all of them. He and Eileen have entire conversations with just their hands, and you don’t mean to stare but the hand motions are mesmerizing to watch. Eileen’s signing is quick and graceful, the cadence and sharpness of the movements seeming to change based on her facial expressions and the tone of the conversation. Sam’s is more flowing and uniform, and he doesn’t communicate with his face as much.

When they catch you staring you apologize quickly, face turning red, and then attempt to introduce yourself with clumsy fingers, spelling out your name slowly only to get halfway through and realize you’ve forgotten the signs for the last few letters.

Sam takes pity on you and helps you out. Eileen grins and says, like she’s sharing a secret:

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s great now, but the first time we met he tried to sign ‘thank you’ to me and signed ‘fuck you’ instead.”

That shocks a laugh out of you. Sam turns red and grumbles, but it’s clear he doesn’t really mind the teasing. He looks at Eileen like she hung the moon, and something about him goes soft and fuzzy around the edges with her around; he looks older, but in a good way. You don’t know how it’s possible for someone as huge as he is to look as fragile as he does with Eileen’s hand in his, like _she’s_ the one being gentle with him, but it’s still happening right in front of you. It’s...sweet.

That same night, Cas comes home after several dayys away. Dean makes tacos “to celebrate,” and Eileen mixes margaritas. You’re invited for dinner as always, but it quickly becomes clear this is more of a party than anything. You also learn that Dean wasn’t exaggerating about Sam’s lack of alcohol tolerance. Eileen mixes drinks that taste like candy and hit like a ton of bricks. You stop at one, already feeling the buzz, but Sam has two before dinner’s even ready, at which point he wraps both arms around Eileen and crows “tequila is my lady!”

Eileen smiles, stands on her tiptoes to kiss his nose, and switches him to water immediately.

You watch all this from your place at the table, feeling warm and fuzzy from the alcohol and more than happy to continue devouring tacos as long as Dean keeps piling them on the table. And if you look a little wistful, nobody calls you on it.

At least not until Cas sidles up to you much later, while Dean and Eileen are teaming up to own Sam at the game that turns all families into warring hostile territories: Monopoly.

“Being in a room with Sam and Eileen used to make me lonely, too,” he says softly, pitched so only you can hear. “Real love can do that to you.”

You tear your eyes away from them to glance at him. He’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. There’s a soft smile on his face, knowing but not teasing at all.

“What changed?” You ask. Cas’s smile turns brilliant with the kind of happiness you can only hope to experience someday.

“I found something real of my own,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. You can see the way his eyes drift away from you as he speaks, wander toward the other end of the room to land on Dean. Dean, who looks up as soon as those eyes find him, and returns that same kind of smile.

You head off to your room pretty soon after that. It feels intrusive, suddenly, being there. Intrusive and, yes, lonely. Cas read you like a book on that front. You miss your own family, imperfect as they can be sometimes. And you’ve never had what you saw in that kitchen, never even thought about having it. Truthfully, the idea of it scares you. Sam and Eileen, Cas and Dean, they look at each other in this heavy, settled, _forever_ way that you can’t even conceive of at this point in your life. However nice it may seem from the outside.

I t takes you a long time to get to sleep that night, but when you do sleep, it’s deep and dreamless.

The next morning you enter the kitchen to find Cas sitting down and cradling a cup of coffee, Dean and Eileen at the stove, and Sam slumped over at the table, head in his hands.

“Tequila,” he groans from beneath his flannel-clad arms, “is _not_ my lady.”

You try, you really do, not to laugh at him, but then you make the mistake of catching Dean’s eyes from across the room.

He grins.

You fight it.

He grins wider.

You start to lose the battle.

He snickers.

You give up.

Everyone cracks up, including Eileen once Dean explains what Sam said that was so funny. Sam just glares and glares at all of you, then goes back to hiding his face in his arms, muttering something about betrayal.

* * *

Once it’s just the four of them left in the kitchen, Eileen stops petting Sam’s hair long enough to sign a question to Cas.

“So the civilian balancing act thing is working?”

He nods thoughtfully, answering between sips of coffee,  speaking and signing at once.

“Yes. I wasn’t sure it would be as effective, but it seems as though the confluence of negative energy has cleared, and there have been no new omens in the skies over Lebanon in several weeks.”

“It’s workin’ out great,” Dean says, mouth full of food. “Still not crazy about the idea, but hey. At least we didn’t get somebody who’d want to throw crazy parties every other weekend.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you _hate_ parties,” Eileen teases.

“Hey. We throw _good_ parties,” he says, gesturing between them. “But college kids have crap taste in everything from booze to music. It’s like...a rite of passages. Four years of bad taste and worse decisions.”

“Hey,” Sam says, raising his head finally. “Some of us actually spent our time _studying_ in college.” The worst of his hangover has been taken care of via a green smoothie Dean still can’t believe he allowed to be made in his blender, but he still looks tired around the eyes.

“Like I said, terrible taste and worse decisions,” Dean says.

“The one thing that worries me is how sustainable this solution is long-term,” Cas points out with a sigh. “We only managed to get one tenant for this semester. The very most we can depend on is the end of December. And it only works as long as the civilian _remains_ a civilian, meaning completely ignorant of all things supernatural.”

“Yeah, even if someone stayed for all four years of school—which is unlikely—what are the chances of us keeping the secret that long?” Sam agrees. He sounds tired.

“Pretty slim,” Eileen adds.

For a moment, a tight silence descends around the table.

“Okay, enough.” Dean says at last, standing up. He grabs his plate and Cas’s now-empty mug, and heads over to the sink. “We’re good for now, and we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. We’ve got a little time; no use borrowing problems from the future.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to stare at him, two disbelieving, one impossibly fond.

“What?” Dean says, defensive.

“That’s very wise, Dean,” Cas says, a little smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “You feelin’ okay?”

Dean flips Sam off, gives Cas a smile, and turns his attention to the dishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Our tenant seems pretty observant, think they'll figure it out?

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when this will be updated or how many chapters there will be. That being said, I've already gotten most of chapter 2 written.
> 
> If you've never seen a kitty cat keychain, I highly recommend googling/checking them out on Etsy. They're an excellent and very cute self-defense option (though check the laws in your state because ofc they're illegal in some states).


End file.
